Pages

Monday, January 28, 2013

The Boy Who Cried by Donnie Kicklighter

The
outside of the tent flap was whippin’ back and forth in a squall of moist
Mississippi wind. Occasionally it would separate itself from the canvas just
long enough to offer me a flash of the Miller boy’s face. They say he up n’
murdered someone, but the way I see it, this a war. Ain’t no murderin’ during
war. Killin a’ plenty, but not much murderin’.

‘Sides
that, he didn’t have the eyes to be a murderin’ man. Back home I saw my fair
share of hangins, and all them boys had one thing in common: their eyes. They
could be standin’ up there scared shitless or laughin’ like some kinda goddamn
maniac, but in all those eyes there was a hunger. It’s like someone gave ‘em a
good taste of a steak and then took away all the cows. They’ve done somethin’
new that the rest of us jus’ don’t know about, and that hunger never leaves the
eyes.

Miller
boy didn’t have the eyes. Or the stomach, apparently. He was tied to the stake
in the middle of the tent, and fresh bruises were soaking in a puddle of what
appeared to be this mornin’s grits as he lay limp and shakin’.

I
turned around to resume patrol, but found myself in the company of a fella
named Hyde.

“Look
at that sick sumbitch,” said Hyde as he spit Charleston Gold.

“What
‘bout him?” I asked.

“Story
‘round the camp is he killed a mama and her youngins. Blocked their door and
burned their house down with ‘em inside,” said Hyde. “I don’t know why we jus’
ain’t shot him yet.”

Usually
I’d rule such a story the result of too much whiskey mixed with the daily
horrors of war, but it’s hard to deny a whole regiment saying they walked up on
the boy in front of the ashes of the White Family farmhouse. The Harback
Brothers said he came without a fuss, but they roughed him up anyway.

But the
boy didn’t have the eyes. At least, not the murderin’ eyes. The wind folded the
flap back and I saw the bastard lyin’ there covered in his own filth and
whispering hysterically.

“If I
was Sarge, we woulda cut his yella throat right there and given that mama’s
spirit some justice,” whispered Hyde, with his own hunger burning bright in his
one good eye.

“If you
was Sarge, we might as well give Grant our swords now,” I said.

Inside
the tent the boy sat up, his wrists bleeding from holding such unnatural
positions. The flap closed again, and inside you could hear the boy strugglin’
against himself.

“All I
know is I’m sleeping with Crenshaw’s fat ass snoring like a goddamn sawmill
while this little cocksucker gets a whole tent to hisself,” said Hyde bitterly.

There
was the problem. If he was so guilty, why hold up the whole march to camp here?
Far as we knew, our orders were to get to Appomattox ASAP. Yet here we were for
the third day in a row. Nah, somethin’ weren’t adding up with this boy. They shot
John Berry on the spot when they caught him rapin’ that slave girl from the
plantation back in Alabama, why would they keep a monster such as this alive?
And isolated to boot.

Hyde’s
voice dropped to a low whisper. “They say he’s been talkin’ nonsense about
those poor youngins tryin’ to EAT ‘im. I think he’s got a devil inside his
blood. You know his daddy was always-”

But
Hyde never finished his gossip. All at once there was a scream and sickening
crunch of bones snapping followed by an oppressive wave of silence. I made it
to the flap first, my bayonet at ready. I tore open the door just in time to
see the boy’s lifeless body crumpling unnaturally as his broken neck lolled
between his arms and his restraints.

He had
managed to hang himself. To this day, I can’t remember Hyde hollerin’. Or half
the camp rushing the tent. But I’ll never forget the look in that Miller boy’s
lifeless eyes. It definitely wasn’t murderin’.

4 comments:

Intriguing. I especially like the subtle way you revealed the setting information. By just dropping the name "Grant," you were able to tell the reader that this takes place during the civil war, without having it come across as forced exposition. That's always a good way to keep the reader drawn into the scene.

I'm also curious about the implied supernatural nature of the murders. It's never explicitly explained that there is anything 'unnatural' going on here, but the reader gets that impression. It gives just enough information to keep the reader intrigued, without over explaining things and ruining the mystique.

I Love this. The dialect drew me right in, and I could practically hear the narrator's voice as I read. As said above, the subtle hints alluding to the time era and the possibility that something supernatural is going on here really make the story.